


Tempest

by Mssilverwoods



Category: The Durrells (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-10
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2020-06-26 01:37:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19757923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mssilverwoods/pseuds/Mssilverwoods
Summary: If it had rained, Louisa should have been mortified. He doesn’t suit rain anymore than she does.





	1. Chapter 1

She loves the way he looks in the half light of the cool evening sun. It’s an English sun of late autumn golds, watered, but it shines on him. If it had rained, Louisa should have been mortified. He doesn’t suit rain anymore than she does. 

Spiro sits forward on the dining chair, his book spread out on the lace tablecloth, one hand wrapped around the handle of a cup of tea. She is suddenly taken aback by a reminder of Corfu. That thrilling moment when she saw him reading the paper outside her home, the first morning after he stayed the night. This is an entirely different view, an ocean between him and his homeland but the thrill is the same. The morning after his first night in England.

His legs appear grounded to the wooden floor with an air of solidity and permanency she loves and fears, for she feels her home is with him in Corfu. She’s restless in England.

It’s as if he’s been here forever.

Her head is tilted towards her own novel, but she's really watching him, noticing how he moves when he is unaware of her glances or himself, his attention lost elsewhere. Behind him the fire burns, unknown shapes dance around the walls. The light bathes over the broad expanse of his shoulders, dressed in a loose shirt, his jacket discarded. Shadows paint a trail down his torso, drawing her gaze down past his hips to the length of his legs. To his feet, his boots somewhere in her kitchen. She knows that he would walk on hot coals on those beautiful feet to save her. That she would do the very same for him.

His cheek bones tense as he concentrates. Against the warm skin on his neck, she can see a line of muscle, his chest almost hidden from view but it's hers to touch when she wants. His lips are hers to kiss when she has the need. His dark hair and profile is so distinct that if she were to loose him in a crowd, she'd know him instantly, if it wasn’t for the sixth sense that draws her to him like a moth to a flame.

Earlier today they had been to the market to get food. She had seen the glances of curiosity and interest, he is a handsome man and she has taken pride in her appearance, hoping he’d return. All the while his hand is on her back or his fingers wrapped around hers. Walking to town and queuing for food here isn't so different to how she did in Corfu. If anything, he’s more relaxed in a different country than she ever was.

She believes he's beautiful. If her eyes fix on any imaginary imperfections, it's because those are the things that make him unique. Hers. Nobody else’s. Not anymore. She has never met anyone with the many layers he has, each one contradicting the other as light opposes day. A deep soul in which she wants to drown, every time he focuses that dark, deep look on her alone. No other man interests her, not since she realised he loved her.

He has been travelling the miles through war-torn Europe, across the sea in a storm, hurtled by train and arriving like a tempest into her safe arms. Kissing like crazed new loves, not adults who ought to know better, with an intensity and passion that both excited and inspired her. Each trying to find a way to quell the need and fill the unwanted spaces that life had created. Later, he loved her with tender care in the cocoon of her bed. Now, here in the peace of this domestic, English seaside town, as the evening falls, she finds herself warm with the after effects of him. The longing for more, for him, used to frighten her when the ocean divided them and she pushed away, into the dark places of her mind. She feels released, embracing the heat of her blood, the tingle that comes with desire and contentment of finding her soulmate.

She remembers a few scant hours ago. Waking up to find herself hot and alert and him in the midst of foreplay. The warm bulk of him fitting close to the curve of her back, his hands caressing her breasts, while his mouth moved on her neck. Still half-asleep, she found herself moaning, pressing back against him with the sudden sharp desire to have him inside her. In the confusion of her restless mind, emotions swirled like the lights on the boat which she felt would never arrive, sinking in a sea of agony and love. Perhaps still lingering from her nightmares of emptiness. In her wakened self, she feels the need to be with him, of being locked in a separate skin to his; a powerful urge to fling herself into his very body, own his soul. 

She clung to him, burying her face in his chest and inhaling deeply. He invaded her senses, his hands moved on her back, comforting yet arousing. She raised her head and he smiled at her, teased her a little. Her ears fill with her sighs and his low moans of pleasure. She felt the loneliness fade forever, as he pushed into her with passion, eyes never leaving hers, extinguishing the cold and igniting her..

Now she sits with her book, looking at the words but not reading, amazed at how comfort and love fill her heart, mind and soul. Out of the corner of her eye, she watches him turn a page, wrapped up in the logic of characters she'll never completely understand, seemingly oblivious, but always aware. A smile on his lips that she doesn’t think comes from the book alone.

He likes to laugh. Not the polite smile he rewards strangers, even her, when they first met. His loving smile is warm, soulful and all consuming. When he does his face is radiant, his face dimples and his eyes twinkle. Lying next to him in bed, she could see the beginnings of crow's feet forming around his eyes, grooves worn by many, many smiles. She likes to laugh too. It used to tire her in another life, those days before she met him and the space in between when he’d captured her soul and had to let her fly away. The very reason he asked her to promise she would come home all those years ago, as they lay, love struck and passionate, spent in the sand, under the stormy skies before war.

Her body has grown taut, tingling with the contact of her clothing when she shifts in her chair, mingling with the memory of herself in bed with him, her pale skin glowing next his warmer tones. Her hands on his hips, his fingers caressing her face, tenderly pushing her hair from her eyes. Her lips open, she hears her own voice speaking, telling him that she loves him, stumbling on the Greek words but revelling in his pride at her attempt. She hears the words back in both languages.

He rises in quiet concern, tuned to every emotion she feels. Is she alright? So she tells him what he means to her, as best she can with the words she has, and takes his hands, draws him to her to explain what language cannot describe. How much she loves him, and how she’s willing to travel back to Corfu with him when the sunshine rises over the shadows of war.


	2. Chapter 2

He remembers that first glance. Theo had told him that there was a new family on the island with many cases in need of rescuing. Trust Theo to notice they had a dog and not give a second glance to the beautiful, surprisingly young mother. 

It was her watchfulness and determination that took him by surprise. He had spent many happy hours entertaining tourists, cruising around the island, showing off in his car and taking the tips, enjoying nothing more than admiring glances from ladies of all ages. Nothing more. He had a wife and it was an island full of gossips. Her reluctance to play that game, along with that vibrant laugh and the dedication to her children created tempest in his soul unlike nothing he’d felt before. 

He wanted to take her then, run away with her from the banality of life and show her every corner of Greece. The depths of his soul if she’d let him, and risk all that was familiar.

She remained eagle eyed from the moment he spoke to her. Her eyes lit up and challenged him as he tried to sell them the villa. Then as time moved on and his heart broke in secret as she fell for Sven and then Hugh, she began to trust him with her secrets. Holding her in the taxi as Hugh made plans to leave for England, he pretended that they were a couple. 

Was it just weeks ago that they were on the beach and then in her bed? When she was so alive and vibrant, and full of emotion as she came apart beneath him.

Now her hands turn the pages of the book she reads. Fingers stroke the text and he recalls them pliant and gentle across his chest. Their movement through his hair was an erotic pleasure he had never discovered. Around his neck, the span of his shoulders and down his spine.

Now her fingers play with the locks of her own hair, idly twisting as her eyes flick over words. He shivers as he recalls his own hands running through her hair whilst her tongue stroked him. Mouth wet and warm as she knelt below him, the painful control he exerted trying not to give into her ploy. A momentary respite in a game of passion, a rare minute when he lost control. Cried out for her and returned the gesture as she stood shivering with desire at the need for him on this most ordinary of quiet mornings in a seaside town, far from the island they love. It was a morning on which he had every intention of simply being with her. Bathed and wanting nothing more than her company.

If she is aware of the curve of her breast, pale, heavy and soft in the daylight, the world arrested in order to flatter her every move, then she makes no effort to correct the fabric of her clothes. He wonders if he dares to, knowing that he'll only start to caress. It’s a heady turn on that threatens to propel him from his chair. Knowing that it is him she wants, arouses him beyond rational thought.

Her body has been taut from worry and tension. The last few days of sudden grief, the horror that she would have to leave Corfu and him behind. Then his change of heart as his family persuaded him to go with her and Dimitra’s unexpected encouragement as she too packed her bags with his sons. He had no heroics and no protests. Quietly on board the ferry, he sat with her family, Louisa, upright, discrete and tense on one side, Margo on the other, squashed into him. Dimitra and Basil apart but watchful, together, a mixed up group on their way to a strange new life.

He should know how she feels. He has touched and stroked every inch, feasted on her wetness and buried himself inside her, so desperate to become part of her. To release himself from his body and into her soul, to try to tell her how it feels. To be loved and wanted so physically astounds him. To have some want him for his entire self; his appearance, emotions and soul makes him alive. If life was worth living since the day he met her, it's now a celebration.

She is not perfect, he knows that. Any imperfections are his idea of beauty and make her human beyond all others. She senses his adoration, of that he's certain. Below her robe, her nipples are taut and he now can't stop from moving like lightening across the space. He would defy any male from doing the same, he swears that he'd burn suns to get to her. A blush spreads across her face as he takes her hand, leads her to their bed.


End file.
